


Bluebird

by FineTheCouchIsCoolToo



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gay, M/M, Phase Four (Gorillaz)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 18:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11258139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FineTheCouchIsCoolToo/pseuds/FineTheCouchIsCoolToo
Summary: 2D is a momma's boy and misses her often and Murdoc is the only one who can comfort him.





	Bluebird

**Author's Note:**

> This is gay idk what else to say. Sorry if it's hard to read, I run on a lot.

There are times when, in his heart’s act of desperation for a time before he was hit by a car and kidnapped by a man twelve years his elder, Stuart Pot aches for his mother more than his head aches for release through copious amounts of pills. In these times, he will mope about wherever the band happens to be staying (at the current moment, Spirit House), draping himself over furniture and moaning to anyone who will listen about how hard it is to be a star, and how his stomach churns at the fact that he cannot remember how long it has been since he’s been given a motherly hug. In previous years, those who were put through the torture of having to listen to 2D’s whining were all groupies or stray women found in local pubs, but recently, he’s found open ears a little closer to the makeshift home he’s created out of friends and music.  


Crusty and heavy eyes open with resistance, and skin pushes and rubs against soft fabric. “Did I fall asleep again?”  


Murdoc Niccals looks down from the television at the man sprawled out on the couch, his torso resting on top of Murdoc’s lap and head nestled naturally in his gut. He groans softly, product of the pressure against the core of his abdomen. “A few hours ago, yeah,” He knits his fingers into the greasy clumps of blue hair writhing on his stomach. “Are you feeling any better?”  


“Mm, no.” His arms fly up into the air for a moment, covering Murdoc’s view of the nine o’clock news, before falling back below his line of sight. Stuart stretches, his body shaking against Murdoc’s lower half as all of the tension from crying himself to sleep flows out of his joints. “Not about missing my mum, I mean.” He looks up at Murdoc, and, disregarding the fact that the man continues to stare at the screen ahead of him instead of back, smiles. “Sleeping helped the ache a lot.”  


By ache, Stuart does not mean a pain like his migraines. He means an ache like the tugging in a smoker’s stomach on the third day of a wretched attempt to quit when the scent of smoke tickles the hairs on the inside of their nostrils, one of sordid addiction that cannot be tamed by anything but the smell of butterscotch and a warm bosom to rest his head on. As warm as Murdoc is, the smell of bourbon does not match the smell of hard candies and the feel of soft gut under his cheek is not the same as the frills of his mother’s blouses, and sleeping seems to be one of his only healthy ways to force off the itch.  


Stuart shifts to follow Murdoc’s view and hums. He’s asked to see his family so many times in the past twelve hours that he’s not sure if he can even form the words anymore. At one point, he thought that Murdoc’s insistent refusal of the right was some form of emotional abuse that could only be product of the man’s lack of understanding, due to his own shitty upbringing, but as the waves of homesickness came and went over a course of years, and the comfort from Murdoc became an increasingly more predictable factor in it, Stuart began to realize that the refusal was more for his own benefit than Murdoc’s. From all of the times he’s expected to have a beaming mother animated to have a reunion with her lonely son backstage at a concert and been met with only beautiful women and the hankering for liquor, he’s surprised it took him so long to realize that perhaps Murdoc had come across the idea that going to Stuart’s childhood home would be not only unsatisfying but even counteractive.  


“Can we not watch the news? It’s rather boring.” Stuart whines, kicking his feet into the air one by one and letting his ankles fall back onto the arm of the couch in unison.  


“Are you even watching?” Murdoc looks down at Stuart, absentmindedly poking the tip of his nose with his fingernail.  


“No, but I can hear it. Their voices are so dull.” His nose twitches.  


Murdoc changes the channel. Stuart croons a grateful response, wrapping his arms around Murdoc’s hips and burying his face in his stomach. These nights are always the ones where neither man is fearful of over complicating anything, where such displays of affection are greatly appreciated and not hard to come by. The lack of over complication stems from Murdoc’s knowledge that Stuart’s childlike cravings for his physical affection are the fault of only his thirst for home and nothing more, and his lack of an issue with providing a quick fix.  


“Hey,” Murdoc rubs Stuart’s back languidly, no longer focusing on whatever the television is showing.  


Stuart pulls away from his shirt and makes bemused eye contact with Murdoc. “Yeah?”  


“Are you doing okay?”  


“Not very,” He sighs, and rests his chin on Murdoc’s solar plexus.  


Murdoc runs a hand through his hair, his nails scratching against Stuart’s scalp. With a gentle tug, he brings 2D up to eye level and cups his cheeks. “Do you want some butterscotch?” He asks, thumb rubbing against Stuart’s prickly jaw.  


Stuart shakes his head, chest pressing against Murdoc’s. “No, thank you.” His breath is hot against Murdoc’s face. “I’d rather forget about her right now than wallow in her memory.”  


Murdoc nods, and pecks him on the lips without hesitation. “I understand.” His hand slips up the back of 2D’s shirt and warms cold flesh, and he leans back to let Stuart rest all of his weight on him. Stuart shivers and wraps his arms around Murdoc’s neck, whispering his gratitude before pressing himself further into the warmth that Murdoc provides.  


When their lips connect, all that Stuart can think about is the beginning of their times together and Murdoc’s speed addiction- he is reminded of the cold nights trying to distract Murdoc from the withdrawals that left him incapacitated. If he had given Murdoc more speed to stop the pain, would they be here now? He severely doubts they’d be anywhere but that same room. Their bodies move together like oiled pieces of machinery; their entire dynamic is so entirely different from what it had been back then and 2D is certain that if Murdoc had so much as suggested this as a coping method fifteen years ago he would have denied them both the opportunity, but this is a much better option than desperately trying to hold a psychotic man to the ground while both of them cry.  


What Stuart craves comes in shades of yellow and orange, and what Murdoc can provide is hues of red and pink, something closer to what he misses than he’s been able to find anywhere else. The stench of sweat and liquor has morphed into something better than the fading smell of butterscotch, and soft coos of “2D” have become more satisfying than the stale reminder of his temporary position as his mother’s favorite bluebird.


End file.
